


Night Trip

by betts



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Coda, Dubious Consent, Episode: s01e08 Day Trip, F/M, Hallucinations, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Incest, Sex Pollen, Trapped In A Closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 01:55:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16985925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/pseuds/betts
Summary: On their way back to camp, acid fog rolls in. Clarke and Bellamy take shelter in the cellar of a cabin, but the temperature drops dangerously low, and their rations are filled with jobi nuts.(A coda to "Day Trip")





	Night Trip

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompts:  
> • A first kiss in canon if it had happened in season 1?  
> • kissing scars  
> • bellarke stuck in a closet?
> 
> Also I realized I've never written huddling for warmth trope? So, I fixed that. 
> 
> I know I'm five years late to this party, but Day Trip is one of my favorite episodes, so here is my love letter to it.

Bellamy killed a man. It’s been a long day.

They’ll send someone out for Dax’s body tomorrow, come get the rest of the guns and supplies. Clarke’s feet hurt and her shoulder aches from the recoil of the rifle. What an easy thrill it had been, pulling a trigger. How quickly things spiraled. She can taste the adrenaline in the back of her throat, familiar now after all that’s happened, and even though one of their own is dead — at Bellamy’s hands, again — she feels the day has been a distinct turning point, that she’d misjudged Bellamy Blake. His hubris is his sense of familial loyalty, which isn’t a terrible fault to have, all considered. It’s almost sweet, in a weird way, the lengths he’s gone for Octavia. You can trust a man when you know where his allegiance stands. Clarke can predict all his moves now that she knows what lies beneath his skin.

They’re silent as they walk, Bellamy a couple steps behind her, the steady quick crunch of his boots on the soft earth. Around them, crickets chirp and birds cry out in the night. Bat wings flutter overhead. The air has gone chill.

A horn blares in the distance.

Clarke freezes, glances around. “Acid fog,” she says, though she doesn’t need to. She can see the lights of camp up ahead, half a mile or more, but they don’t have time to make it before the fog rolls in.

“Come on, I know a place,” Bellamy says, and he darts east, away from camp. She follows him, running now, glad he brought so many rations with him and they took a handful of blankets. Bellamy knows these woods so well already from his daily hunts. She hopes they’re moving away from the fog instead of closer.

They weave through the thickest part of the forest, so dark she can barely see at all. She follows Bellamy by sound, until that gets too difficult, and feels his hand curl around hers as he guides her through the bush. Brambles and thorns peck at her shirt sleeves. She can barely keep up, starts tripping over her own feet.

“Don’t make me carry you,” he says, and that gets her angry enough to squeeze his hand and barrel forward.

Eventually they make it to a clearing, and in the clearing is a cabin. She gasps when she sees it — an actual building, made by humans. The roof is rotted through, collapsed in on itself like a failed gingerbread house. Vines and weeds have overtaken it almost completely, mere ruins.

“That’s not going to keep the fog out,” she says.

Bellamy doesn’t answer, just hauls ass around the back, where two cellar doors are locked shut with a chain and padlock. Thankfully the chain is rusted over, and Bellamy breaks it off by slamming the butt of his rifle into it. It takes both of them to wrench the doors apart, and when they finally open, Bellamy climbs down first, no time to turn his flashlight on. The stairs don't seem to go down too far, the depth of a grave, ironically. He helps Clarke inside, hands on her waist as he guides her down the rickety steps. Together, they pull the doors shut, and fall into complete darkness.

She can hear his heaving breath in tandem with her own. The place smells of cold and rot. Dampness clings to the air and makes a film on her skin while fear creeps up her spine — she can’t see what’s around them, what kind of space they’re in. The ground is soft. Dirt, probably. She wraps her arms over her chest.

A moment later, Bellamy’s flashlight flickers on and they can finally see their surroundings. The cellar is small, the size of the custodial closets on the Ark, and filled with steel shelves, large tin cans lined up on each one. Maybe they’re still good, she thinks, but knows they’ve probably succumbed to botulinum toxin, which could wipe out the entire camp. There are a couple books on the shelves, too. A radio. Bellamy runs his flashlight over the entire space. Other than the scuttling of a beetle, it’s still and quiet. As safe as any place they could find.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” she whispers, like they’re hiding.

“It’s where I was headed,” he says, “when I, you know. I took a gamble on the cellar. Hadn’t had a chance to scope it out yet.”

This was where he was going to run away to. Rebuild the cabin. Make a home base. Not a terrible plan, really, except —

“I would have found you.”

His eyebrows rise up in surprise. She likes when she can make him react, put any expression on his face other than calm complacency, a clenched jaw or the occasional sardonic smirk. She hates his stupid smirk.

“You think I wouldn’t have gone looking? I would have searched every inch of these woods.”

“I would’ve made it look like I was dead.”

“I would know if you were dead.”

“How?”

It sounds normal in her head but when she says it out loud, it sounds stupid. “I would feel it. If you died.”

“You’d feel it.”

“You think you wouldn’t feel it if I died?”

To that he says nothing, which confirms it, this bond they share, whatever it is. The thing hiding under all their irritation and antagonism. Friendship, she guesses, if she had to put a word on it. Mutual respect, maybe.

She can’t believe this is happening all over again, the fog, hiding out in a cramped space overnight. The truck had been nicer, but the cellar has a softer floor for sleeping. At least there’s no alcohol this time, and they have a blanket, and food, and she’s not harboring a secret crush on Bellamy. There’s no way she’d ever sleep with him. He’s old, and kind of a slut.

“Not sure any of it’s good,” Bellamy says of the canned food. “I’ll have a team come out tomorrow.”

This, more than their earlier talk, convinces her he’s not planning to run away.

“Look,” she says, taking his flashlight and pointing it at the top shelf. There’s a box, and Bellamy lifts on his toes to grab it. On the front is a red cross, the universal symbol for med kit.

“Oh thank god,” he says.

They sit on the ground and Bellamy props the flashlight on the wall. She sifts through the med kit and breaks open a sterilizing wipe, tries to put it to Bellamy’s battered face, but he pushes her hand away. “Come on, save that for someone who needs it.”

“You need it. You’re bleeding all over yourself.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“Just let me do my damn job.”

He huffs, and she begins wiping away the dirt and blood. The worst cuts are on his forehead and cheek. She’s never looked at his face this closely before. He has so many freckles. So many scars. She wonders how he got them all, wonders what his life had been like on the Ark. Bad enough to shoot the chancellor. Hide a sister under his floor for sixteen years. She wonders how their paths never crossed, not once.

He sits still and closes his eyes. She folds the wipe and goes back over the cuts with the clean side, then puts bandages over the two worst ones. When she’s done, she cups his face in her palms and says, “You almost look human.”

“Shut up,” he says, but she thinks he means it fondly, even if he gives no outward sign of it.

The adrenaline is finally wearing off. They clean their hands with another sanitizing wipe, then open two rations for dinner, fill up on jobi nuts, jerky, and berries. They sip on the canteen they brought, and Clarke dreads what it’ll be like when either of them have to pee. Hopefully the dehydration will take care of it. They’ll figure everything else out in the morning, when it’s safe to go back to camp.

There’s barely enough room to lie down flat, but they manage. They each have a blanket. Clarke curls away from him, says, “Goodnight.”

“Night,” Bellamy says, and turns off the flashlight.

She thinks it’ll be easy to fall asleep, after the day they’ve had, but it isn’t. The temperature keeps dropping. She starts to shiver, floats between dreams and wakefulness, thinks she sees her dad again, and her mom, and she’s a kid again but they lock her in a freezer. The Skybox, shot entirely into space.

“Clarke,” someone says. “Clarke, wake up.”

She comes to and finds her teeth chattering, her fingers and toes and nose numb.

“Shit, it’s fucking freezing," he says.

Bellamy, she reminds herself. Cellar. Acid fog. Dax. The guns. She sits up, body now eerily still, mind foggy. Bellamy turns on the flashlight.

“Come on,” he says, knee to his chest, unlacing his boot, pulling it off, then moving to the next.

“What?” she asks.

“Trust me, I’m not happy about it.”

Next comes his jacket, then his shirt.

“What are you doing?”

“We need to share body heat,” he says, like it’s anything else, clipped tone, not at all implying what she thinks it’s implying.

“You want me to get naked?”

“Unless you want to freeze to death.”

When still she doesn’t move, he says, “Please don’t fight me on this, Clarke. Fight me on anything else, but I just want to sleep and not die.”

“Excuse me if I’m a little hesitant to get naked with a guy I barely know.”

“Not two hours ago you said you would be able to _feel it if I died.”_

She stares at him. He stares back. This is so much worse than being trapped in the truck with Finn, even if at the time she had liked it. At this point she’d almost rather be trapped naked in a cellar with Bellamy than have anything to do with Finn ever again.

“Turn off the light,” she says.

He does. Blindly, she starts taking off her clothes. The cold is unbearable. She thinks she can feel her heart beating, and it’s not going the speed it should. When she’s done, she says, “Okay,” and Bellamy places a surprisingly gentle hand on her hip, guides her toward him. She curls into his embrace and he throws both blankets over them.

Once they’re settled together, he asks, “Is this okay?”

His gentleness surprises her. Everything about him surprises her.

“I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“No, but it helps me to know that you’re comfortable.”

“Why do you care?”

He sighs in frustration. “If you have to ask that —” He stops himself. “Nevermind.”

She feels bad for saying it, wishes she could take it back. She tucks her head under his chin, listens to his heartbeat, worries momentarily about bugs on the dirt floor, focuses on the seedy dampness of the ground underneath them, but gets distracted by the feeling returning to her fingers and toes. It aches, like her body is trying to thaw, and she can’t help the quiet pained squeal she makes in her throat. Bellamy rubs his hand up and down her back. She tries not to think about the entanglement of their legs, or the fact she can feel his penis on her thigh, that they both smell like sweat and dirt and blood, and, against all odds and despite it being the _worst_ time, she’s a little turned on. It’s just a physical reaction, she tells herself. Skin on skin. It would happen to anyone.

“Sorry,” she says, so quietly and muffled in his chest she thinks he can’t hear.

“I’m sorry too.”

“For what?”

“Being a dick all the time.”

She lets out a little laugh, and then allows herself to take a deep, relieved breath, the first she’s taken since they got in the cellar. She feels warm now, and tired, and closes her eyes.

 

It feels like only seconds later she wakes up again. Light is shining through the slats in the cellar door. She extricates herself and glances up to see Finn’s sleeping face, his lithe warm body in her arms.

“Thank god,” she says sleepily, and huddles closer to him, shifts her leg up his hip. He lets out a little groan, and she can feel his cock half-hard against her. She grinds onto him. He wakes up, doesn’t open his eyes, just threads his fingers into her hair and meets her movements.

“Fuck, baby,” he says. _Baby._ That’s new. “You always feel so good.”

Her body is oversensitive, an electric current lapping at her skin. They’re barely moving and she can already feel the stirrings of an orgasm, his cock bumping up against her clit on each pass.

“I’m sorry,” he says, pained, “god, I’m so sorry.”

Sorry for cheating on Raven with her. Sorry for lying. Sorry for leading her on.

“It's okay,” she finds herself saying, voice coming from far away. “I forgive you.” And she does, but she doesn’t know why, she just has a feeling everything will be fine, and the world is full of love and light and goodness, and they’ll survive. Flourish, even. Maybe not at first, but over time.

Finn leans in and presses his lips to hers, more gently than she remembers. Lovingly. Before, he’d had an insistent tongue and fast, darting movements she could barely keep up with. Now it’s slow, easy, barely any tongue at all, just the occasional swipe across her lip or pressed against her own.  

“Want you inside me,” she says. She never told him that time in the truck had been her first. First everything, in fact. Hoped it hadn’t been obvious. Now it feels ridiculous. He had to have known.

“Anything for you,” he says. “You know I’d do anything.”

On the next pass, he settles at her entrance and slides home. The stretch hurts, almost worse than before. His cock didn’t feel as big last time; she didn’t feel as full. He fucks into her slowly, taking his time, completely unlike before, which had been hurried, like coming had been a race to the finish. Now it’s as if they have all the time in the world, like he could fuck her forever. It’s warm enough they’re sweating, slick bodies gliding against each other. He shifts her onto her back to get a better angle, push deeper inside her. That’s another thing that’s different — in the truck, Finn had insisted she be on top, even though she didn’t really want to be, especially not for her first time. This is what she had wanted, Finn giving it to her hard and deep and slow. She didn’t come that time, but now, he’s hitting exactly the right spot, and she’s so sensitive she might as well be on fire. When he bends her knee to her chest, it’s all over. She tries to stifle the shout, and he says, “No one can hear us, go ahead.”

So she does. She shouts so loudly she thinks the Ark can probably hear her.

“God you’re beautiful when you come.” He leans down and kisses her, fucks her harder and faster, says, “I don’t want you to hate me anymore.”

“I don’t,” she says. “I don’t hate you.”

He rolls onto his back and takes her with him, but this time she likes being on top, feels less pressure because she already knows she’s doing a good job, can tell by the sounds he’s making (he was silent before), encouraging her by saying _just like that, fuck, so good for me, god, look at you._

Her vision narrows like her head is being squeezed; nausea rolls over her, like it did yesterday when she saw her dad. She ignores it, runs her thumb over Finn’s lip to memorize it, to draw later, circles it over to the top, where his scar is. She kisses it lightly, then the one on his eyebrow, his forehead. He has bandages on his face, and in the morning light, she can almost count his freckles —

She goes still. Blinks several times. Swallows. Bellamy is staring at her the exact same way she’s staring at him, in confused horror. His hands grip her hips more tightly. She wants to say something, or roll off him maybe, get dressed and head back to camp, but she sees a question in his eyes, longing, something deep and lonely and scared in a way she had never thought of him. More importantly, she sees affirmation, his assent. She thinks she probably looks the same way, the same exposure etched in her expression. So she starts moving again, tentatively; his eyes squeeze shut. He meets her movements halfway until he stills her hips and begins fucking up into her. She reaches between them to roll her fingers over her clit, can feel him harden inside her, stretch her wider, the sweet pain she's gotten used to. The first pulse, the cracked moan he makes in his throat, sends her over, harder than the first one, louder, and before she has time to climb back down, he sits up and puts her back on her back and continues fucking her through both of their orgasms. She had no idea sex could feel like this, good and pure and intimate, even if it’s with Bellamy Blake, even if she thought he was someone else.

This is how she knows he isn’t Finn: when he falls back on his side, he slots his hand between her legs and works at her clit, swollen and oversensitive, smears his own come all over her. He slips two fingers inside and fucks her hard and fast with them, _give me another one,_ he says to her, _just one more, one for the road,_ kisses the corner of her mouth, her cheek, below her ear. Gentle. Always gentle.

She hates that Bellamy fucks the way he does everything — infuriatingly well. All strategy all the time with him, the angles that make her cry out, the parts of her body that are the most sensitive. He makes it all about her, and she can feel his eyes watching her, catching her acute reactions, cataloging them wherever he stores the things he knows about her.

She hates more how quickly she rises, how hard she comes from just his fingers and a mouthful of praise. _Good girl,_ he says, _that's right,_ and she hates that the most, hates that it pulls another wave of pleasure from her, hates that she knows she’ll be thinking about it every time she touches herself from here on out. Hates that she’ll never be able to look at Bellamy Blake again without knowing what it’s like to be filled by him.

He rolls onto his back, arm thrown over his eyes. The cellar is humid, sweltering. She wonders if the cold had been a hallucination, too. The horn, the acid fog. Maybe killing Dax wasn’t real at all. No, she tells herself, that part was definitely real.

In the immediate aftermath, she realizes with a pang in her heart that Bellamy is a way, way better lay than Finn, but then realizes with a worse pang that this can never happen again, and no one can ever know.

They dress quickly and silently. Bellamy climbs out of the cellar first. Clarke throws their supplies up and follows. He holds a hand out to her — the same hand that had just gotten her off — and she takes it, and he helps haul her out. It’s barely after dawn. By the time they get back to camp, most of the hundred will still be asleep except for the early risers, those on watch or breakfast duty.

Later today, she’ll have to call Jaha and ask him to pardon Bellamy. She nearly forgot.

They walk in silence until they make it through the thickest part of the woods and back onto the trail. Then Bellamy asks, “Who did you think I was?”

“Finn.”

He scoffs.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“You can do better.”

“Like who? You?”

He doesn’t answer. His jaw twitches in the way she now knows means he’s hiding something.

“Who did you think I was?” she asks.

“No one,” he says. “Just a girl I used to know.” Another jaw twitch.

She knows. She doesn’t want to know, but now she does, and now it all makes sense. His unwavering loyalty. His bone-deep fear. She would be the same way, in his situation.

The fall silent again until they reach the furthest post from camp. Clarke stops, grabs his arm. “Wait.”

He stares at her with the waiting blank eyes of a man trained to be a weapon and nothing more.

She wants to tell him she understands, or wants to understand. She wants to offer an olive branch to him, tell him that no matter what happened in the cellar, they’re still friends, still close, now even closer than before, and she doesn’t know what that means. She wants to tell him she’s scared — of what they are, of what’s to come, of how she feels about him. She wants to tell him about Finn and Raven. She wants his praise and not his scorn.

Instead she says, “We can’t tell anyone about this.”

He gives her his stupid sardonic smirk that she hates. It’s like the snap of a rubber band. Everything is back exactly as it was.

“Trust me, princess,” he says, and continues forward, leaving her behind, “there’s nothing to tell.”


End file.
